


Butter Fingers

by aqhrodites



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cell Phones, Friendship, Gen, Hangover, Hungover Warren, Male-Female Friendship, Modern Era, One Shot, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt, and ororo is just, not exactly canon, tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 15:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11649405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqhrodites/pseuds/aqhrodites
Summary: After a misdial, Warren needed to use Ororo's phone to call his one-night-stand who still has his phone, but as he as handing it back, he dropped it and now the screen is shattered. "I hope you realize I’m broke and I am not paying for that,” Ororo tells him.





	Butter Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> **I suppose this can be viewed as set in a modern day alternative storyline with them keeping their relationship the same or similar as in X-Men: Apocalypse.**

****So—

 _Man_.

Ororo is, like, really tired.

Like, she's had to deal with five AM random bedroom intrusions, battle for the bathroom that morning at eight, and fight for the last of the cereal, and for decent alone time in the bathroom. On top of all that, only to arrive back to her bedroom to find that her cellphone, that had been lying face-up and unscathed on her bedside table, is now faced down with hairline fracture cracks all along the screen. She speaks obscenities under her breath. It seems like the world is out to get her, that ruining her life and an earbud short-circuiting mid guitar solo on her top rated songs, watching groups of children scurry around the rapidly filling bedrooms at this oversized mansion, and dealing with periodic emotional episodes—it’s all _incredibly_  draining, and she's just. She's _tired_.

So, she leaves first thing. Doesn't say a word to anyone, just slides her now-cracked phone in her left back pocket, and her wallet in the other. Hangs pure metal bracelets around her wrists—which are more aided conductors disguised as accessories.

Snow white hair pinned in a style by golden pins, nails painted a dark, threatening black, she makes sure to avoid eye contact as she leaves the premises, head held high and dignified, eyes a lazer-pointed ahead. A sliver of stomach shows above her belt as she walks. The golden necklace hanging from her neck reads  _‘Goddess’_ in slanted cursive. If you look closely, lightening dances on her fingertips. The subtle static shocks from her touch are never accidental.

She has one plan for today: to get to the phone store, pay the expenses for the damage, and live a few more days at the crowded mansion until she is able to leave.

A plan which is way more laxed than she should have known to prepare for.

Because, en route, there’s a call from an unsaved, unknown number. From a payphone stationed outside of a Subway. There’s heavy breathing, no words. A cough. A swallow of some kind of liquid. Clearing of a gruff throat.

“Thank— _fuck_. Munroe?”

 

 

* * *

 

She spends a good thirty minutes inside the phone store, and fifty percent of her spending money on the expense of her cellphone. An extra more is dished out for a brick of a phone case on the persuasion of the clerk. This doesn't count the twenty-four minutes it takes for her to arrive at the location of her unknown caller—given in low, slurred grunts over the receiver.

She spends fifty percent of her energy and patience now pressed for time. The remaining fifty is probably going to be used up in the following minutes, she thinks, as she enters the shaded lot behind a now-closed bar adjacent to a Subway and Dollar Tree.

“What...” She doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, takes in the mutant before her, slumped against the bar’s back steps. Her thumbs raise to her lips, pressed together in a makeshift prayer as the rest curl around the cup she's holding. She blurts out a one-word, simple, to the point, “why?”

Warren grunts, eyes still closed, head bowed between his knees. He's shirtless. A dark stain of something is on his right knee. Large, glorious wings are folded, flopped at either side.

“What and where do you think you could probably get me to take you? What were you possibly doing?”

“What do you think?” he snaps. He sounds tired. 

She pauses, a hand in her back pocket, head slightly tilted. Gold earrings twinkle as the sun moves, making it glimmer across her dark skin. Her blinks are lazy and slow. “You look like shit.”

“ _You’re_ shit.”

She blinks. Doesn't respond. Is unamused.

Recognizing his impulsed reply, he mumbles, “sorry.” Then, low where Ororo almost misses, “I feel like like shit.” He shutters. Burps.

His bright hair is windblown and there’s a healing flesh scrape across his left knuckles and shoulder. Tired wrinkles hang underneath his still-closed eyes. He looks overall disheveled. A semi empty glass bottle sits beside him on the concrete steps, the contents unlabeled but permeating the air with alcohol.

The girl he accidentally calls, scrunches up her face. “Are you _drunk_? It’s ten—almost eleven in the morning.”

“And what if I am?”

Ororo just raises an eyebrow and continue to study him. He may be a _little_ drunk, to say the least. “How bad is your hangover?”

He groans, “I can't hear anything other than my head pounding.”

She nods. “Vodka?”

“Moonshine.” He blinks wildly, and shields his eyes against the daylight.

There’s a warm coffee cupped in her hands, bought from the nearby Subway. Ororo’s fingers drum against the paper cup. “What happened?” she asks, extending the cup as he's blinking her way.

Warren remains silent, and when Ororo doesn't speak for a minute or two, he takes a quick glance. “Some big, asshole brute,” he waves off. “Or something.”

She frowns. “Or something.” And she waits to see if he's going to continue. When he doesn't, she sighs to press, “well? What happened?”

He mumbles around the lip of his cup. “I just told you.”

“Don't be flip with me, _Warren_.” A breeze blows, and her eyes widen dangerously, demanding, daring.

His drink from the cup loud and _long_. Annoyingly slow. Finally, he sits back, sighs, wings flex before folding against him. “There was this big, asshole brute guy.”

“Yeah?”

“And a girl.”

Her brows arch, surprised, but not.

Warren adds, “and some of his goons... _Yes_ , there was a fight. ...Hit me over the shoulder with a chair. ...My finger’s broken, I think...”

“There was _a girl_?”

Rolling his eyes, “why is _that_ the part you paid attention to?”

She folds her arms. Of course there was a girl. Why else would he do something so stupid? “Nothing. That’s not important.”

The faux-gold plated watch around her wrist reads 10:48 AM. He shivers again, wraps his arms around his shoulders. His head bows again, elbows languidly outstretched across his bent knees, still holding onto the coffee cup. Elsewhere in this behind-building lot are three dumpsters. The sound of a truck’s horn rings loud and shrill from the nearby highway. Birds chirp, sitting on the light pole wire high above. Somewhere inside the building behind them, a phone rings; no one answers it.

The mutants don't speak for several minutes. Ororo thinks he may have dozed off to sleep.

“Come on.”

He makes a small jolt. “No. Where?”

And she's beside hm, suddenly hooking a hand around his bicep, nails digging into skin.

And, of course, he yanks away. Glaring at her, rudely, he snaps, “I’m not going anywhere with you. Don't _touch_  me.”

“So. _You_  called _me_. To come over here and _get you_ , just so you can tell me you're going to stay here?” Ororo would be perfectly fine with leaving—it seems like overkill to have come all this way for nothing—she would be perfectly fine with leaving him here. Heck, it could be payback for when he's left her alone.

“I called you because I need to use your _phone_.”

“You called me from a _payphone_.”

“It’s a long distance number.”

She remains standing, staring at him, considering. Finally, “no.”

He sucks his teeth, shakes his head. And she _knows_  that a string of—lies?; offensive, sharp words?; accusations?—are preparing to fly, so she beats him to it, asking, “is it the girl?”

He pauses. His head is pounds. He doesn't have the patience or the energy to beat around the bush or to lie. His eyes dart to the side. “She has my phone. And my ring.” 

There’s a precious gem that sits in the center of the wide ring Warren wears, that he never seems to take off.

“You're, like, rich. Why don't you just buy another one?”

“Because, Snow White, it’s—it’s complicated. _Duh_. And the phone was custom-made.”

“And the ring?”

He rubs the finger it would usually be sitting around. “It’s just important. _Ok_?”

Ororo stares for several moments longer. Decides, “fine.” Reaching around to her back pocket to retrieve her phone, “do you at least have a name?”

In answer, a crumpled, stained napkin is pulled from his jeans as he stands. A number in bleeding, smudged black ink is written across it. No name. No signature, no red lipstick kiss stain left. No anything.

Ororo nods. “Your ex?”

“You're biting my ass.”

“You asked to use  _my_  phone.” She waves it in her hand. And muttering loud enough for him to hear, “good to know you're still such a bitch.”

“Glad I’m still slightly drunk.”

Rolling her eyes, she extends her shiny new cellphone, yanking it back before he grabs it to warn, “be nice.”

He gives a very sarcastic, forced, all-teeth smile.

“Thanks, but not just to me.” Her brows rise in meaning. Extending her phone again, she lets him take hold. “Also that’s newly fixed. Break it, I break you.” And she flashes an innocent smile that holds sinister.

The line is picked up after the fourth ring. Even from Ororo’s distance, she can hear a woman’s voice on the other end. The woman doesn't sound happy.

Warren is gruff and offensive.

Ororo presses her index fingers on either side of her mouth, pulls her lips in a fake smile, signaling to ease his tone for it to work out in his favor.

He flips her off before turning his back to pace in the lot, a hand on his hip, wing feathers ruffling when there’s a loud noise on the other end of the cellphone.

The conversation ends after seventeen minutes. By now, Ororo had made it to the concrete steps and was gingerly sniffing the contents of the glass bottle. He's gotten an address, and “ _yes_ , a name too,” he tells.

She swirls the bottle in boredom. “Good. She sounds sweet. Blonde? Did you find her on Tinder too?”

“Whatever.” His jeans sit low on his hips. Warren readjusts, re-positioning them higher and tightening his belt. “Brunette, since it interests you so much.”

“Don't say it like I care about who you're with. Like, you don't call for my help whenever something wrong happens. Which is, like, _all the time_.”

He replies with a grunt and a mumble of incoherent words. A hand rubs across the plane of his bare chest. A black and red tattoo of a snake coils around his right arm. There’s a picture of a lady. A rose arches the top of his shoulder. A pirate caricature. Three lines of a quote or song that Ororo has never been close enough to read runs across his left pectoral.

Silence. There’s anxiety in the atmosphere. A need to get up, hurry, run, and to simultaneously wait, slow down. A pause, a hanging in the air.

The glass bottle moves between her hands. Black nails  _clink_ -ing on the neck. “Is that coffee working for you?”

Hes gazing off in the distance, takes another drink as if to answer. He scratches over the tattoo of the red rose. Tongue sticks out in disgust at its bitterness. “Something like that. I think. I _hope_.” Turns the cup around to read the order written on its side in marker. “This is crappy coffee. Stale too.”

“It’s cheap,” she answers. “You ready to get out of here?”

 

* * *

 

Six minutes later, they've left the lot behind the club building and are making their way down the sidewalk in the direction of Warren’s last night score.

“Oh, come _on!_ Who can forget this?  _‘If kisses were raindrops, I’d send you showers / because you're fine and I wish you were mine.’_ You kept this shit?” Warren continues rolling down Ororo’s past Facebook feeds, dodging her flying, electricity-laced fingers, and  _cackling_.

“I told you—it’s mementos. Don’t—don’t go through those! That’s enough. Warr—Warren stop scrolling!”

“Alright, alright. Don't get all worked up. I’ve come to the end anyway,” he giggles, turning back to the exasperated woman beside him, fiercely  _glaring_  at him. Wearing a smirk, he hands over her cellphone—

It isn't his fault. Not really. It  _isn't_. The plastic of the phone case cover, slick with both sweat of his hands and the condensation of the coffee cup—like, really. _Come on_. And he thinks what pretentious Steve Jobs-wannabe co-owner asshole had decided it would be a good idea to not add sturdy, trusting rubber grips to these things. Because—

There’s a sickening shatter as the phone lands face down on the sidewalk.

The entire world _stops_ , and Warren hears the blood rushing into his ears. He doesn't want to look over, doesn't want to know if the other mutant is going to strike him down. His wings flex, outstretching in preparation to take flight.

And, what else is he supposed to do?

Ororo wears a frangible look. Warren’s wings flex.

Cars roar past. Neither mutant moves. 

Silence.

His palms sweat more.

Ororo stands with hands at her sides, gaze intent on her fallen phone. When she finally talks, Warren’s head snaps. He's surprised how soft and steady she spoke, “mother _fucker_!”

He hesitates. Gaze darting towards her. “Well, you _did_ kinda deserve it...”

She looks to him wearing what he _thinks_  is shock and—anger?

“Munroe,” he speaks, unsure whether to bend down to get it or not.

“I just got that phone fixed...”

He blinks. “Munroe?  _Jesus_. This is a nightmare...”

As if in a sudden realization, “you're a piece of shit.”

“Look, I’ll—I’ll _buy_  you another one. Ok?”

“You're full of shit,” the words come threateningly calm, her eyes cutting like red hot iron.

“I’m serious.”

“You're—you _just_  said. How are you—”

“Because I can. I mean—I got it, ok?”

She stares, a mixture of incredibility and disbelief as he squats to cradle the unusable phone. Tiny shards are left on the pavement. Then, she asks, “ _why_?”

He sneers. “Do you want a new phone or _not_?!”

And Ororo steels up, narrows her eyes—just as bright blue and sharp and wounding as they have always been—and presses a fist to her pink lips and clears her throat. “Yeah. Sure. I do.” Her eyes roll, looking to her right shoulder.

Warren stands, shakes the device to loosen any remaining shards, shoves it into his front pocket. At least now, retrieving his nabbed belongs has now become a sort of necessity, he tells, he tries.

**Author's Note:**

> **Kudos don't tell much so _please_ let me know your thoughts! Was it bad and crappy? Was it too long and obnoxious? Was it just ok? Don't hold back your words, please! _Don't_ forget to comment. _Or_ , shoot me a complain and/or critic. Any words, good or bad, are greatly appreciated.**


End file.
